


Ache For Me

by hannibae



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom!Will, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibae/pseuds/hannibae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is murky and black, like ink being dropped into water, and all he can make out in all of it is Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ache For Me

They spend weeks running, their skin sticking uncomfortably when they have to curl in close in a ducked off house that they break into, spending the nights barely sleeping. Everything starts blurring not long into it—him and Hannibal, the murders, the blood on their bodies, the shaky breaths they both heave into their lungs. The stag follows them everywhere, and Will is almost certain his lips mumble something about it on their own accord one night, hand squeezing Hannibal’s bicep as he struggles to stay conscious so Hannibal can change the bandages on his face.

The bite of the cold against his face shocks him back into consciousness one day, just rewiring his thinking until everything is stark and bright and blooming right in front of him again. The haze around his senses is gone, the weight in his bones rushing out of his fingertips. He no longer feels like his insides are being scooped out of him, and when he breathes, he remembers how the breath feels as he’s taking the next one. The fuzziness that once coated everything is gone.

He knows, logically, that it means the fever is gone, that he’s finally healing. But it’s such a severe change, such a shock to his system that he allows the fantasy to linger. He lets it have this false sense of poetry follow behind it.

That night, he takes a shower for the first time since he threw them off that cliff, instead remembering Hannibal’s hands running hot, soapy washcloths over his skin as he spoke softly to make sure Will was with him; and when he emerges from the steam, he feels like a new man. Everything slots back into place, and he can _see_ again.

He’s healed up, his stitches long gone, memories of Hannibal’s steady hands using stolen tweezers and medical scissors to remove them. There’s a vague memory of soft murmuring about Chiyoh, of a future that didn’t seem possible. His fingers were a little less numb, and he wasn’t sweating as Hannibal’s fingers worked at fixing Will, so he knows he was better, even then.

But right now, he’s himself again. He’s himself _at last_.

Out of the furnace comes a diamond in the rough. Hannibal will be sure to polish him right up.

“You seem better,” Hannibal’s voice drags him out of his thoughts. He’s sitting on the foot of the bed, leaning over to untie his shoes, and Will traces the line of muscles in his back and remembers the way they felt under his hands as he was tugging him to their inevitable, inescapable death. Will knows if he were to touch him there now, his fingertips would come across the raised skin of a bullet hole.  Somehow, that just makes him want to touch. “The fever must be down at last.”

Will makes a sound, a small one, just in the back of his throat in an attempt to agree. It must come out a bit strangled, because Hannibal stands smoothly, wincing a little as he straightens and his skin pulls where his bullet wound is still healing. His hand is cool when it presses to Will’s forehead, the other coming up to cup his jaw, and Will’s eyes flutter closed for a second. When he opens them, Hannibal is smiling, just a little bit, and he says, “You’re still a little warm, but it’s far from being something to worry about now. All that’s left is for your sutures to do their job. No strenuous activities and you should be fine.”

He’s still damp from his shower, and all he’s wearing is the towel he’d found hanging in the bathroom from Hannibal’s shower earlier in the day. The air hits him just right and he shivers, shaking his head a little, and Hannibal’s thumb brushes across his bottom lip. He’s still smiling, looking at Will with his head cocked to the side just slightly now. The hand not cradling his head finds its way to his torso, fingers skimming across his ribs before they land on the line of bruises down the side of his body, from when they’d landed in the water. Hannibal has matching ones, bruise for bruise, purples and blues marking their deaths.

A painful jab of a thumb into one of the more tender spots on his side makes Will jerk, hiss a breath through his teeth, and when he opens his eyes, Hannibal is still staring at him.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, biting it out because he knows it’s polite, and it’s what Hannibal is waiting for, underneath this all. He wants Will to be concerned, and Will _is_. The playful glint in Hannibal’s eyes shows that he knows it. They were both just waiting until Will didn’t have the option not to ask.

“Still sore,” Hannibal says, “but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He brushes his thumb across the scar on Will’s stomach, the smile that’s haunted him since Hannibal gave it to him. “Thank you for asking.”

Will’s lips part, and he mumbles, “You’re welcome.”

Hannibal’s fingers don’t stop moving, now, trailing over the line of his abdomen, a gentle, curious brush of skin against skin that leaves Will breathing a little faster. “We’ll be needing to move again tomorrow since you’re feeling better. Somewhere a little more permanent this time,” Hannibal tells him, and the lilt in his voice doesn’t get past Will. And the press of his fingers doesn’t get past Will, either. He doesn’t particularly think Hannibal wants them to have gone ignored, but he doesn’t acknowledge them.

“Where will we go?” Will asks, sucking in a breath as Hannibal’s fingers dance along the hem of the towel Will is gripping onto, white knuckled and trembling.

The towel falls as soon as Hannibal’s mouth opens to answer him, and he hisses at the cold, at the feeling of Hannibal’s fingers on his skin again, right on his thigh, barely brushing against him.  
It’s enough, and the roaring in his ears is almost too loud for him to hear the answer Hannibal is giving him.

“I’ve got a plan for us,” Hannibal murmurs, looking down at where his thumb is rubbing circles into Will’s hip bone. “I’ve made room for us to be alive in this world, Will, despite your best efforts for us not to be alive in it. There is a home for us, tucked away somewhere they will never find us. All we have to do is allow ourselves to be there.”

“All we have to do is allow ourselves to be there together,” Will corrects, stuttering out a shocked laugh when Hannibal moves his hands back up to Will’s face.

He smiles at Will, leans in and presses a dry kiss to his forehead. He anticipates something else, hands shakily coming up to grab at Hannibal’s sides, fingers carefully avoiding the tender, wounded skin. But he steps away instead of licking his way into Will’s mouth like he thought was going to happen, and Will is left cold and naked, towel bunched on the floor between their feet.

“Get some sleep, Will. I’ll be coming shortly,” Hannibal instructs, fingers working at the buttons on his shirt.

Will nods and makes his way under the sheets of their borrowed bed. He doesn’t know when the people who actually live in this house are going to be coming back, and neither does Hannibal, but he suspects that they’ll be able to tell they’ve been here. Tomorrow, before they leave, they’ll do their best to cover it all up, hide any evidence that they’d been here at all, but Will knows it’s not that simple.

He doesn’t watch Hannibal get undressed, and he doesn’t wait for him to finish brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. Instead, he curls onto his side and closes his eyes, searches for any sort of memories from the past however long they’ve been running.

There aren’t any full memories, but the flashes he gets paint him a picture. It’s mostly red and black, a dark silhouette and a pair of antlers looming over his sickbed. There’s a little bit of white, cold and harsh and biting at his freezing skin. Hannibal’s face, contorted and not entirely his own mixes in with a gentle touch and the taste of tears in his mouth.

He doesn’t know what happened, or how long they’ve been moving, but he remembers how Hannibal’s hands feel against his skin. He remembers the way his breath caught in his lungs, felt heavy as a brick and stung through his entire chest as they plummeted over the bluff. He remembers hands wiping the sting of sand out of his eyes as he looked at the moon and counted the seconds he had left before his vision went black.

Everything is murky and black, like ink being dropped into water, and all he can make out in all of it is Hannibal.

The bed dips next to him, but he keeps his eyes shut. It’s warmer, and his shoulders relax a bit, subconsciously, but he pretends like he’s asleep. He knows Hannibal can tell he’s faking, but it makes it easier to pretend like the ache isn’t there.

_____

Hannibal’s plan for them plays itself out beautifully in front of Will. With only the hiccup of trying to figure out how to get out of the country without being spotted out of the way by means of a slightly sketchy airport ducked away in a small town in Virginia, together they make it to the home Hannibal has waiting for them.

It’s just them for miles and miles; them and woods and snow, the white, biting chill of it crunching under their feet as they move the small amount of belongings they’ve accumulated on their journey from the car Hannibal had stolen for them into the foyer of the lavish home. It sticks out like a sore thumb, sprawling and huge, decadence in the center of trees and snow, but Will doesn’t feel even the slightest tingle of fear of being seen or caught. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt that Hannibal would never put them in a situation that would compromise the fantasy life he’d created for them both.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Will,” Hannibal says, and it breaks the silence they’ve had going for so long Will can’t actually remember the last words spoken between them.

Will passes him a smile, shaky but there, and tells him, “It’s great.”

And he means it. The inside is cozy and warm, furnished with thick, plush chairs and sofas so unlike Hannibal that Will knows they were put here for him. Traces of Hannibal’s taste are hidden around the house in the chandelier hanging in the dining room, the sleek appliances in the kitchen, and the plush rugs lying on the floors.

He doesn’t know how Hannibal did this, how he managed to get this to happen from the opposite end of the world as he nursed warmth back into Will’s blood, but it’s right in front of him, real and tangible and the second most beautiful gift this man has ever given him.

They finish unloading the car, and Hannibal allows Will a few moments of solidarity to wander and run his hands over the things that were bought for him, things he knows Hannibal acquired with Will in mind. He emerges from the kitchen with two glasses of wine as Will is running his hands over the top of the piano tucked away in the living room.

“We were interrupted the last time we did this,” Will says, and his stomach twists in memory of the night. He gets the smell of Hannibal’s blood in his nose again, just briefly, and then it’s replaced with the dry smell of merlot. He takes the sip he was trying to take that night so many nights ago, and Hannibal grins at him.

“Ding dong the dragon is finally dead,” Hannibal hums.

Will nods, sucks in a breath. “But not us.”

“But not us,” Hannibal agrees.

“You took my life,” Will starts, takes another sip of wine, “and carved out another one for me.”

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, lets the cogs in Will’s head turn, waits patiently until Will is saying, “You carved and carved until what you saw in front of you was something that fit alongside yourself. I had no choice but to let you in.”

At that, Hannibal smiles. A full smile, teeth that Will has only ever seen biting into something. They bite into him, this time, sinking in further and further until the flesh snaps and they’re slicing through the sinew and hitting bone, grinding along and making Will’s skin crawl. He puts the wine glass down on the coffee table in front of him and stares at Will, head cocked to the side.

“Does it bother you, Will, that I wanted you to see what I saw in you?” The way he asks it is genuine, a question he’s wanting an answer to. “Or does it bother you more that I saw it first?”

“It bothers me,” and he puts his glass down, too, moves a little closer, “that I chose to see it last. It was always there, bubbling under the surface, but I refused to let it boil over. You forced it to boil over.”

“I simply encouraged you to open the door you already had inside you.”

Will smiles at him.

“Are you in love with me, Dr. Lecter?” He wasn’t going to ask, had plans to avoid it at all costs, but the nagging of wanting to know for sure is an itch he can’t seem to scratch. Bedelia’s answer told him what he needed to know, but to hear the words from the source would be much more satisfying. “Do you _ache_ for me?”

Hannibal smiles again, and this one is almost shy, or as close to shy as a man like Hannibal can manage to feel. He doesn’t get an answer, but Hannibal cocks his head again, and asks, “Do you ache for me, Will?”

 He pauses. To be entirely fair, he isn’t sure what he’s feeling is an ache. There isn’t a name for the way his whole body thrums when he’s in Hannibal’s presence. ‘Ache’ is too simple a word for it, and it feels almost wrong to place his feelings within such a confinement as to give them a name. It sours in his mouth when he lets the word roll against his palate. No, ache isn’t correct. What he feels is something so much more.

“No,” he tells Hannibal. “No, it isn’t an ache that I feel. What I feel is a,” and the words catch on the tip of his tongue, hesitate to come out until he can finally whisper, “quiet sense of agony.”

“I’d argue that agonizing suits us better than any aching would,” Hannibal agrees.

Will drags his hand over his face, and when he looks at Hannibal again, he’s moving closer. He stands almost close enough to be touching Will and reaches out to do so, fingers curling around Will’s wrist, only to pull his hand up to his face. His lips press against Will’s palm first, just a gentle touch that trails up his middle finger.

The kisses continue along each finger, and eventually his knuckles, over the fading scrapes and bruises still littering his entire body. Hannibal soothes the agony for just a moment, with his mouth pressing feather-light kisses against Will’s skin.

“I feel as though you’ve delivered me an unearned absolution,” Will confesses, staring at Hannibal’s closed eyes.

“Your reserves in regards to the truth of who you are do not reflect my feelings towards you,” Hannibal says, and he opens his eyes again to look at Will as he does.  “Any sort of absolution I’m providing you with is not unearned, Will. Your becoming was beautiful, and I’m honored to have had a part in it.”

That statement is almost funny. He wasn’t a part of it; he was the entirety of it, the reason it happened at all, the gentle hand guiding the way. But Will doesn’t laugh, instead he reaches out to touch Hannibal’s face with his free hand.

He drags his fingertips across the bow of Hannibal’s lips, feels the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth before he drops them lower, tracing the line of his jaw and feeling the hair growing there. There’s a moment where he thinks Hannibal is going to bite him, just a gut feeling, but it passes, and instead, Hannibal’s tongue come out to lick his lips.

The grip Hannibal has on his other hand tightens, and Hannibal brings it up to his face as well, allowing Will the chance to guide the way entirely.

With both hands cradling Hannibal’s face, fingers dancing along the curve of his jaw, the lines of his cheekbones, and finally passing along the bridge of his nose, Will leans in.

When their lips touch, it’s only briefly, just long enough for Will to taste the way Hannibal’s breath catches in his throat. And when he pulls apart, it’s just as brief, just so he can whisper, “You’re the one who did this to me.”

He tastes a smile on Hannibal’s mouth this time, licks past the seam of his lips and into the warmth of his mouth. Hannibal opens beautifully, makes a sound in the back of his throat that Will swallows around, feels in his chest.

Being like this with Hannibal is bizarre, but not unpleasant. In fact, when Hannibal takes control of the kiss, gets his hands on Will’s cheeks and angles him the way he needs to be able to bite at his lips and lick at the top of Will’s palate, it’s probably the best kiss Will has ever received. And when Hannibal tugs at the hair at the base of Will’s neck with a moan that reverberates down Will’s spine, it’s _definitely_ the best kiss Will has ever received.

When they were just therapist and patient, Will didn’t think about Hannibal doing this. There was never room for any other interpretation of this man in Will’s brain, even when he knew he and Alana were doing this. If he had thought of him this way, maybe he would have been prepared for the intensity of it. The elegance Hannibal exudes in everything he does is apparent in this, too, and Will had no idea.

With a last chaste, wet kiss, Hannibal pulls away and looks down at Will, a look of contentment on his face. “Do you ache for _this_?” he asks, and there’s a confession hidden away in his words that Will only barely catches.

“Yes,” Will admits, a whisper against Hannibal’s mouth, and a sound that tastes like satisfaction barely makes it out of Hannibal’s mouth before he’s placing a gentle, teasing kiss against Will’s.

“What else do you ache for?” He moves one hand down to the waistband on Will’s pants, fingers the leather of the belt there. “Or should I tell you what I ache for instead?”

The line of their bodies press closer together, and Will isn’t entirely sure whether it’s on his volition or Hannibal’s at this point. Their hips touch, the hard press of Hannibal’s cock against his making him groan, burying his face in Hannibal’s shoulder.

“I want you to do whatever you want, Hannibal.” He aches for Hannibal’s touch in general, now that he’s gotten a taste of it. He just _wants_. There isn’t a specific thing he can tell Hannibal, nothing he can list off; he doesn’t know where he would begin.

“Would you let me, Will?” Hannibal asks, leaning down to nip at Will’s neck, teeth grazing his Adam’s apple when he tilts his head back for him. “How far would you let me open you up tonight?”

When Will moans this time, it’s broken off and followed with a gasp when Hannibal’s hand cups the line of his cock in his pants. His hips jerk into the touch without him even thinking about it, and the pressure makes him suck in a breath, nearly knocks him off balance. “Hannibal,” he groans thickly, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s neck as he works a bruise onto Will’s skin.

“Tell me how far you want this to go tonight, Will,” Hannibal instructs, hands digging into Will’s hips and pulling his body closer, sliding down to get on his knees. He brushes his lips over the thick denim covering Will’s erection, tongue coming out to press at the thick fabric, just for a second. “Do you trust me enough to let me put my mouth on you?”

Will is sweating, slides his slick palms through Hannibal’s hair just because he can. His chest heaves with the shaky breaths he’s desperately pulling in, and he nods his head, catching the smile Hannibal gives him. He’s never seen Hannibal this at ease, this content, and it’s almost unnerving. “I trust you,” Will whispers shakily, fingers tightening in Hannibal’s hair when his hands start working at the button on Will’s jeans.

There’s a bit of nervousness fluttering around in his stomach, a bit of unease at the idea of Hannibal’s mouth on him in such a way, when he’s only ever known the man to be biting, harsh, violent. But the same mouth that’s been so violent, the same hands that have given him bruises and broken his body nearly beyond repair handle him with gentleness. They’re soft and loving tonight, wrapping around the base of Will’s cock to guide the head into Hannibal’s mouth, tongue touching him first, licking at the underside before Hannibal is sinking down. They make eye contact for a second, and Will has to look away, sucking in breaths and tugging at Hannibal’s hair.

It’s not until Hannibal hums around him that he bucks forward, an apology tumbling out of his mouth when Hannibal pulls off. But instead of the reprimand he anticipates coming his way, Hannibal tells him, “Again, please,” curt and polite, and it would almost be comical, hearing those words, if Hannibal’s face wasn’t so flushed, and Will didn’t catch him bringing his own hand down to touch himself through his pants.

It’s not comical at all then. It’s searing through his veins, hot and bright and settling low in his abdomen, tingling up through his spine when Hannibal’s cheeks hollow out and his tongue dips into the slit at the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, fingers almost white in Hannibal’s hair, and he thrusts forward again, hesitant and not wanting to go too far down Hannibal’s throat. “Fuck!” And this time when he thrusts forward, Hannibal bobs forward at the same time, taking Will further and further.

He hums again as he’s pulling off, catching his breath and letting Will catch his, too. “Is my mouth where you’d like this to end tonight?”

And god, the way his voice catches, how deep it is, just from sucking Will’s cock, makes his stomach flutter. “Is this where you’d like it to end?” he asks, loosening his hold on Hannibal’s hair. He brushes it back from where it’s fallen across Hannibal’s forehead, shivers when he licks his lips and stands.

They’re kissing again, and Hannibal tastes faintly like Will this time. He presses his hips forward again, and Will lets him rut against him while he slides his hands down to the swell of Will’s ass, under his shirt. His fingers dig in hard, nails catching and dragging across his flesh, and Will assumes that’s his answer.  

“You can,” Will tells him, nodding his head and pressing their lips together again. All he gives Hannibal are small, wet kisses while he scratches and paws at Will’s flesh, letting him make up his mind before they get too far into this for either one of them to stop.

Hannibal pulls away entirely then, chest heaving and tongue coming out to lick at the taste of Will on his lips. The look in his eyes is not unlike the look Will is used to seeing there, dark and heated, eyeing Will up and down as Hannibal contemplates. While he does so, Will readjusts himself, zips his pants back up and smiles when Hannibal raises an eyebrow just slightly.

“Why don’t you show me where the bedroom is?” he says, clearing his throat and slipping his hand into Hannibal’s own.

_____

The bedroom is even more plush than the rest of the house, and Will learns quickly that the mattress is the softest he’s ever laid on, the pillows just as soft and numerous. Hannibal’s got him naked in minutes, hands working efficiently, and Will watches him undress himself, carefully putting their clothes in the basket in a corner of the room.

Unclothed, Hannibal is every inch as intimidating as Will anticipated him being. The broad line of his shoulders, and the thickness everywhere else making Will want to reach out and press his mouth everywhere he possibly can.

He doesn’t get a chance tonight, because Hannibal flips him onto his stomach as soon as he walks back over to the bed. Hands hold him down, fingers digging into the dip of his spine, and Hannibal presses teeth into the flesh of Will’s ass. “You are every bit as divine as I thought you would be,” he mumbles, accent thick as he licks and mouths at Will’s skin. His hands come down and knead at him, pulling him apart, and only then does heat flare in Will’s face. He’s never been this exposed before, but he supposes that’s been his whole relationship with Hannibal right from the beginning.

The press of Hannibal’s tongue to his skin makes him jump at first, mouth opening around a gasp and fingers gripping the sheets until they turn white. Slick and hot, Hannibal’s tongue passes right over his hole until he’s writhing and panting into the sheets. Through the roaring in his head, he hears Hannibal huff a laugh into his skin, and Will isn’t sure why until he realizes he’s _mewling_ and rocking his hips into Hannibal’s face.

“Fuck, Hannibal,” he whines, eyes squeezed shut and fingers going numb. “Please, please, I need—“

Hannibal sits back, pulls away, but replaces his tongue with the pad of one of his fingers. “This is okay?” he asks, and Will wants to laugh at him, say ‘ _seriously_?’, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he could even find the energy in him to do it, so he nods his head instead, tries to press back to get the finger inside of him. “Is this new for you? And use your words for me this time, yes?”

“Yes,” he pants out, “it’s new. I’ve—a few times, just by myself, but I never got very far.”

“It’s better when someone else does it for you,” Hannibal promises, presses the tip of his finger just barely inside of Will. He groans in frustration when Hannibal pulls away entirely. “I’m going to talk you through what I’m doing, and you’re going to stay in this position for me tonight.”

“No, no,” Will starts, moving to turn onto his back, but Hannibal’s hand stops him. “I want to see you. I want—“

Hannibal hums, a soothing sound, low and rumbling in his chest, and he says, “This position is going to hurt less, and it will be easier for me to open you for the girth of me. And,” and he leans down to press his mouth to Will again, this time right where his thigh and his ass meet, and he sinks his teeth there, sucking a deep bruise. “I prefer seeing you like this.”

That makes heat bloom in Will’s stomach, and he moans thickly, moves his hand to touch the wet throb of the bite mark Hannibal’s given him. “Okay, we can, then,” he agrees, nodding his head. He brings his arms up over his head, letting his weight rest on his shoulders.

His whole body is thrumming like a livewire, hot and craving Hannibal’s touch, skin jumping when his fingers press into Will’s skin. This time they’re slick and cool, tracing a slow pattern over Will’s hole. He doesn’t press in, just gets him used to being touched there first, lets him get used to the pressure. It’s slick and weird, but he wants more, pushes back into the touch, making a low sound of approval. “Please,” he begs.

Hannibal obliges, finger sliding into him slowly, stretching him out with ease. It’s thick, and he curls up, opening Will up that much more. His mouth works over the skin of his back while he fucks that one finger into Will, teeth catching every now and again, sucking in a mouthful of flesh and making Will writhe.

The fact that Hannibal has such a thing for using his mouth on Will’s body isn’t a shock, but the way Will reacts to it, arching up for more while he presses back for more of his finger, is a bit of a new thing. The bite of Hannibal’s teeth mixed with the feeling of his thick fingers working him open has him panting open-mouthed into the bed.

“More,” he moans, spreading his legs a little wider for Hannibal.

Hannibal sinks his teeth into the fleshy part of Will’s shoulder while he works in a second, slick finger alongside the first. This is already more than Will has taken before, and it’s better than he could have ever thought.

He’s not fully hard anymore, but it won’t take much to get him there. When Hannibal’s fingers curl again, brush against something that makes him jerk and moan so loudly he actually blushes after, he’s pretty sure he might come just from that sensation. “Oh,” he gasps, hands clutching the sheets again.

Hannibal hasn’t been silent, making small sounds of approval for Will, mouth working wetly over his skin, but that makes him groan, loud and unabashed. It has Will nearly sobbing into the bed, rocking back to get more, to get Hannibal to make that noise again.

The sensations are almost too much, the drag of his fingers over that spot inside of him and the way his body reacts to Hannibal’s mouth pressing those sounds into Will’s skin. There’s a third finger, then, a little too much, but almost not enough at the same time, and Hannibal immediately finds that spot again, making Will tense and thrust down against the sheets.

Hannibal’s other hand holds him in place, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise and Will can’t wait to find all the sensitive spots Hannibal is leaving on his skin in the morning. Three fingers have him incoherent, mouth working half-words and slurring out endearments.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Hannibal says, fingers slipping out and making Will whine high in the back of his throat. “Shh, I know.” And how could Hannibal _know_? How could he know how this emptiness feels, this slick, cold feeling that was a fire in his veins just seconds ago?

Will thinks he’s saying that, but it’s not coming out the way he wants, and instead what he’s saying is, “Hannibal—I need, please, just—come on, put. Fuck, _please_.”

“You don’t ever have to beg me for this, Will,” Hannibal promises, right in Will’s ear. Then there’s the blunt head of Hannibal’s cock, wet and wider than Will anticipated, pushing into him.

It’s uncomfortable, but he grinds his teeth and presses back into the feeling. Hannibal’s hands feel like fire on his skin, digging in and gripping tight, holding Will in place.

“I will give you anything you ever need,” Hannibal says, sighing into Will’s skin and putting his sweaty forehead on Will’s shoulder when he’s finally all the way inside. “All you need to do is ask.”

Will chokes on the sound trapped in his chest, body absolutely thrumming now that they’re this close, Hannibal buried so far inside of him he feels like he might split in half. He’s never wanted something this badly before, never wanted to have someone like this. Never before has he let another human being this far into him, in any way, be it physical, mental, or emotional, and Hannibal has somehow managed to open up and nestle into all three. Everything Will is has traces of Hannibal in it, little hints here and there now that he’s reshaped into this man, now that he’s had his becoming. It was only natural for this to be the next step, and he’s never wanted something so fiercely.

“Come back to me, Will,” Hannibal murmurs into his sweaty skin, and Will grins.

“I’m right here,” he promises, and wiggles a little, moaning at the feeling. “You should move.”

Hannibal puts one hand on the headboard and shifts a little bit, pulling out just enough to thrust back inside and start up an easy pace. It’s just enough, has flames licking up Will’s spine, rolling through his body in waves as Hannibal’s cock drags along the sweetest spot inside of him. Hannibal’s grunts and moans fill the room first, surpassing the small sounds Will makes as he adjusts to this surreal feeling.

“Will,” he sighs, voice sounding thick with emotion. “Oh, Will.”

There are other words, ones in a language Will doesn’t know, as his pace quickens, his body working harder against Will’s own. The harder he presses into Will, the better it feels, the hotter he gets. An arm comes around Will’s chest, pulls at him until he’s on his knees, weight resting entirely on Hannibal’s arm around him. It’s strange, to be fucking someone strong enough to manhandle him how they want him to be, but it also send a thrill through him. They’re pressed chest-to-back now, and Will can feel how sweaty Hannibal is, the scratch of his chest hair, the thickness of his muscles, lean and strong and things that should be strange enough to bother him, but all they do is make him even more desperate for it.

“Shit, Hannibal,” he moans, arching up into the feeling of Hannibal pounding into him. He’s so close, teetering right on the edge and he really won’t need much more. Hannibal moans his name again as he comes, teeth sinking into Will’s neck roughly as his hips stutter and then grind against Will’s ass.

“Come for me, Will,” Hannibal asks, panting harshly, chest heaving as he holds Will close to him, still working his hips up despite the oversensitivity Will knows he has to be experiencing. He’s shaking apart at that, those words tumbling from Hannibal’s mouth, the final scrape of teeth over a bruise Hannibal had already placed on his neck. He arches against Hannibal’s body, mouth falling open in a moan as his hips pivot forward on instinct.

They stay like that for a while, Hannibal’s arm holding Will in place as they catch their breath. He has his face pressed into Will’s neck, panting damp puffs of breath against his skin. The slickness between his legs is new, and he makes a sound when Hannibal pulls out, winces just a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal apologizes, presses a kiss onto Will’s temple.

“’S okay,” Will promises, and collapses down onto the bed again. “Fuck,” he groans, stretching his sore muscles.

Hannibal’s hands are on him again, kneading the sore flesh, and when his mouth is on him again, this time it’s to press soothing kisses onto the bruises he’s left. Will can feel them throb every single time Hannibal touches them, and it aches deep in skin. “Did I hurt you?” Hannibal asks, soft and sincere.

“Not in any way I’m not very okay with, I promise.” He’s smiling, content and utterly spent. “But I am going to fall asleep on you, unfortunately.”

“Not yet,” Hannibal instructs, and digs his fingers into the bruises on Will’s back.

He leaves the bed, and Will hears him fiddling around somewhere nearby, eyes drooping close without the distraction of Hannibal’s hands to keep him awake. It doesn’t last long, because soon enough the feeling of a warm towel wiping at the mess on his skin, and Will doesn’t think about it too hard so he doesn’t get completely embarrassed.

“I’d like to talk, if you can stay awake just a little longer for me,” Hannibal says, mouth on his skin again. “Only for a moment, Will.”

Will yawns, rolls onto his back so he can finally look at Hannibal. The sheets need to be changed, and he’s sure Hannibal is going to make him move before they actually get to sleep anyway, so he says, “We can talk.”

“How are you feeling?” Will watches him pull a pair of sleep pants out of a dresser tucked in the corner, watches even harder as he slips them on.

“Are we resuming our therapy, Dr. Lecter?” He knows it comes out short, but the question gets under his skin. He doesn’t apologize.

“We’ve gone through quite a change together recently. You threw us to our deaths, and we arrived into a new life very much so alive.” He busies himself with stepping into the bathroom Will hadn’t noticed was right next to the bed.

Will sighs, squeezes his eyes shut, and hopes this conversation isn’t going in the direction he thinks it is. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, Hannibal, I’m fine. I want to be here with you.”

“I want to be here with you, too,” Hannibal admits. “What I’m worried about is you being intimate with me.”

“I _want_ to be intimate with you,” Will says. “I wanted you to fuck me just now, and if I didn’t make that clear enough—“

“You did,” Hannibal promises, cuts him off uncharacteristically, and walks over to Will, leans down to slide their mouths together briefly. “I’m only trying to make sure it isn’t going to be something you regret later on, when you’re thinking about it.”

Will huffs a laugh out, suddenly understanding what’s happening. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

Hannibal smiles at him, “Not at all.”

“You are!” Will accuses, and curls to face him when Hannibal slides under the blankets. “You were wonderful, Hannibal. Very gentlemanly.”

“I hope I continue to please, for as long as you are here with me,” Hannibal says, and Will places a kiss to the first bit of skin he can reach.

“I’m not going anywhere, Hannibal.”


End file.
